Her wings.

Sunday, August 14, 2016.


I am the world’s worst packer.  In fact, I am now determined to create for myself a standard list upon which I can muse such topics as how does one really economically plan for the mini-sized necessities of life without either making an investment with every trip in the mini-versions of products you don’t normally ever use but the companies who sell mini-versions of their products had very clever product people.  They knew there was a market for the one dollar mini-version shampoo. Ugh. No! I refuse to give in.

Ok, I have the blank bottles in which I can mini-size my own favorites.  But then if you keep those mini-versions always stocked, then … eventually you have five year old mini-versions… I mean, how many trips does a person actually go on?  This is my first multi-, multi-day in three years.  Oh, Steph… 

“You just might have to plan (which I do).  You might have to actively prepare (gasp – what? planning wasn’t enough?)  And then lastly and probably equally significant, upon return, you might – just might – have to reorganize and reuse those mini-versions knowing full well you will repeat said process next time.”

*Please insert a grunt of self-disgust and ego-defeat here.*


It had been a day of everything with surprising downpours laced with the promise of August sunshine and midwestern humidity.  The day prior I had learned I had a right to be a bit choosy in the acceptable behavior I received from my ex-husband.  (That’s a grown-up way of saying he ‘aggravated’ me – I’m a lady, I won’t write the words which really tickled my lips).  In this day though, I found myself making peace with him on the park bench in front of Eve.  

Broken wings.

Maybe that is why there are Sunday miracles?  I absolutely refuse to rush around like a mad-woman on a Sunday. Absolutely positively not.  At least not 90% of the time.  

As we talked a female goldfinch flew into the window.  I expected, as again 90% of the time is the case, that she would have been dazed but would have recovered to flutter and sputter for a bit, then regaining her own momentum, taken flight.  

But she didn’t.

She shook.  And then she didn’t.  I could not help but to pull at her wings, marveling at the intricacy of layers of lengths of feathers – themselves each a miracle of biology – which had given her flight.  Because she was a bird and I am human, is my soul really worth any more than hers?

Her wings

The only bad thing about Sunday is that it is a “day” which, in my mind, means it is twenty-four hours in duration and there is not one thing I can do about that.  But a Sunday combined with the first day of a person’s holiday?  I am lucky it is no greater in length!  So I continued packing and cleaning, straightening the house so as to be presentable to my sitter for Poesey and welcoming upon our return.

Hauling out the garbage I heard that summer sound of the low hum of a dragonfly.  Instead of seeing it deftly outmaneuver its insects of prey with usual expert air dives, it spun.  Then landed, repeating that dance to keep far enough away from my eager chase.  

What a redundantly, undignified name for such a creature, to put ‘fly’ after ‘dragon’.  No, this one was bits of turquoise born of the earth herself – a dragon of the earth, with a dented wing.

Turquoise Dragon

I kept packing, only to realize we were already on vacation without going anywhere at all.  And maybe it was not a vacation at all but a renewing of the need to leave.  I left while I was home.  Then my son and I, we left for our holiday…  We left the past, no matter where we were physically, we were leaving the past to experience today.

We arrived to our destination, no matter where we are physically, spiritually or mentally, we arrived to find ourselves, in a new place – one which we had been many times before…

We were home.


The moon, the waves, and…the car ferry coming in.

Home.. to all of you… home.



#theturquoisedragon #herwings #thebrickdandelion #imjustme #carferry



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